#and on the one hand they've been great

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

🙃

[patolemus]

wrote 1.3k words today. i'm incredibly proud of myself. i'm also so fucking behind on my assignments

[fiona-fififi]

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[chocolateteapotsvis]

What stories lie behind "Crane Husband", "Kid Fic" and "Rainbow Raider" ?? 👀

Crane Husband

It's a retelling of the Crane Wife folktale, where lonely bachelor Barry Allen rescues magical crane person Hal Jordan, navigating what they think human/magical creature relationships should be.

“Oh.  You’re human.” Not the strangest thing he’s heard a concussed person say.  “Ever since I was born.  How are you feeling?” The man tugs at Barry’s blanket draped over him, and looks around the room a series of jerky head movements.  “Where’s my cloak?” All those sudden head movements can’t be good for his head.  Barry urges him to lie back, but the man won’t budge.  “The white cloth?  With the feathers?”  The man eyes sharpen as he nods, and Barry says, “Please stop moving.  It’s not good for you.”  The man doesn’t, so Barry say, “It was really muddy, so I washed it as best I could and hung it out to dry.” The man starts pushing himself up, and Barry gives in and helps him so he can look out the window.  The storm had disappeared as if it had never been, all the colors intensely bright, the white cloak the brightest of all where it flutters in the wind. “Oh.”  The man says.   He sounds so confused.  If Barry could just get him to rest more— “So you’re not stealing it?” Barry blinks.  “Why would I steal your clothes?” “Because you’re human!  You’re saying you’re not so entranced by my beauty that you’re planning on trapping me here?!” “You’re very good looking, and I would prefer if you’d stay a couple days until you’re feeling better.” Definitely needs some more rest. And maybe some soup. Soup always helps.

Rainbow Raider

The premise here is that Rainbow Raider's goggles are tapping into Lantern energy, and Hal and Barry are trying to get to him before the Red, Orange, and Yellow Lanterns notice and go after him, or the emotional toll of using the goggles can hurt Raider.  It's also a breakup/make up story, where Hal and Barry have to deal with all the feelings about the recent breakup that Raider's goggles are forcing out of them.

The idea was to figure out a way to do something like what @leftsmitteninbritain did with I Second That Emotion and find a process for writing self-contained stories around a superhero premise that spurs the romance.  I definitely haven’t figured that part out yet, but it's still the goal :)

Hal follows the red and gold lightning through the Central City outskirts.  It’s yet another mode they both fell into seamlessly; Barry running at a speed where Hal can keep up.  Hal speeds up out of spite, and Barry matches his pace without comment.  His lack of acknowledgement makes the whole thing feel extra petty. It’s not supposed to be like this.  it’s too easy to remember the hundreds, thousands of times they’ve been in this exact position, swapping theories about the case, or jokes, or flirty little innuendos to see just how many he could get away with before Barry gave him that look.  They haven’t worked together since everything went down, and muscle memory is telling him to fill the expansive silence between them.  Instead the silence hangs like a shroud, a reminder of everything they’d screwed up. Barry turns a corner, and Hal’s treated to  a postcard’s view of the Central City skyline.  He’d spent years heading here instead of Coast, after things with Carol had finally come to a conclusive end and he’d been off world enough to not bother keeping a place in Coast.  Central City; home of the twentieth chance.  At the time he’d found it encouraging, a testament to the city and its protector. But even that hadn’t been enough.

Kid Fic 

This one has a similar base concept to  1989 by @pulsar-1919 where Hal and Barry meet as two lonely, socially awkward kids with interests most other kids don’t care about.  It’s a combination of a slice of life story where 10-12 year old Hal and Barry meetings each other when Barry and Daryl spend a summer in Coast City, and the Flash and Green Lantern meeting as adults in the Justice League. 

“Why’d you have to jump in, anyway?  I was fine.”  The kid drops his arm and stomps over to the pile of wooden pallets stacked against the chain link fence.  “I only ran away because you were in the way.  I would have won on my own.” The stitch in Barry’s side pulls with every gasped breath, and his shirt is sticking to his back where he sweat through it.  He tries to think through it; if he says the wrong thing, the kid can run away from Barry as easily as he had from those other kids. Keep it short and simple.  “I know.” The kid glares.  “So why’d you butt in?” There are a lot of answers to this.  Because I don’t like seeing anyone get hurt is true, but would probably just rile the kid up more.  Because I’ve wished someone would step in when it was me feels a little more personal than he’s willing to get at the moment. The kid is still staring at him, obviously losing his patience with this weird kid who can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business.  His arms are stuffed in his pockets, stalking around the tiny space, and looking about half a second away from just deciding talking to him just isn’t worth it.   The realization sets off a moment of near panic for Barry.  Say something.  Anything. “Because it sucks to be alone.”  The kid’s still eyeing him, like he’s expecting more, so Barry keeps stumbling along.  “I mean, it does just in general, but in that kind of situation, it just-  it just sucks,” he ends lamely. The other kid stares at him for a long moment, still suspicious, before he just nods.  “Okay.” Barry lets out a breath.  The tension in the air’s dissipates with the kid’s acceptance.  Now that it’s gone, though, he’s feeling the sting of his scraped knee, and he’s sure the other kid’s isn’t much better.  “Do you… Do you mind if I take care of that?” “How?” Barry’s already got his backpack off, taking quick note of the loose threads around the Flash patch before fishing inside for his first aid kit and water bottle.  The first aid kit in particular has gotten a lot of use, so he always keeps it well stocked; the school nurse asks questions he doesn’t have good answers for, and his teachers and Darryl ask fewer questions when it looks like he’s visited the nurse. “This happen a lot?” Barry just shrugs and gets to work.  The angle’s a little awkward, since he’s only used to doing this on himself, but the other kid doesn’t complain.  From the looks of him, Barry wouldn’t be surprised if this is routine for him too.

Thanks for the ask!

WIP Ask Game

[keeps-ache]

wailing at the sky I'm tired ! ! ! ! ! !

[jettison-my-gift]

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[waterlinkedgirl]

Good evening Water! I've been meaning to ask this for a while, I was wondering if you'd care to explain what exactly is toumyu hanakoyomi? I've seen some info about it but since it's apparently fanclub exclusive there isn't much about it online.

Good evening dear anon! :D

Toumyu Honmaru Hanakoyomi is a monthly audio drama (15 ish minutes each) that releases on the toumyu premium fanclub. They each feature 4-6 swords, and are each themed around a flower, which ranges from Ookanehira picking a fight with quinces in winter to Urashima settling on irises when looking for a flower to decorate the tea table for the tea ceremony he's organising for his bros.

There will be 12 Hanakoyomi episodes total, and it's likely they'll have a CD release after they've all been released. However, for now, you can only listen to this month's Hanakoyomi episode on the fanclub website, which means some patience is likely to be needed if you want to listen to the last 6. But on the plus side, membership only costs 330 yen a month and when asked for an address, you can just put a hotel or the likes! (it's what I did lol) Imo, they're totally worth the subscription, even if you can't benefit from the other perks the fanclub subscription might give you, like access to ticket lotteries.

I'm also considering putting tls for them on my tumblr here, but it also feels like a bit of a gray zone, as while for myus you need both audio and visuals to enjoy it, for audio dramas you only really lose out on the sounds. I'm afraid people would be satisfied with just the tl and not seek out the actual CD when it becomes available ^^;

[neverendingford]

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[gallusrostromegalus]

A friend of mine has been reading The Locked Tomb trilogy aka descended into Lesbian Necromancer Hell . He's having a great time, and been sending me reports from the pits.

Now I know that in the context of the story "DEATH TO VULTURES AND SCAVENGERS FIRST" is very poetic and badass, but taken with the context that this is the motto of the bone-manipulating guys, the motto sounds slightly less badass and more like they've been having an ongoing problem with Lammergeiers.

Thing is,

A Lammergeier is like, the single most badass familiar an osteomancer could have. Fuck off huge raptorial bird that is either black and white or black and blood red so either way it goes with your goth-ass aesthetic and is extremely easy to train to bring you fun and interesting new bones? Why does the ninth house NOT have these?

Oh right. Jod.

Anyway, this combined with a previous idea I had about Truly Awful Bird/Mammal combinations for The Worst Gryphon Ever, and you know what? Some fuckass idiot in that universe WOULD make a Lammergeier/Spotted Hyena Gryphon. Now that's a creature made to fuck over necromancers six ways from Sunday.

Eats flesh AND bones.

Constantly scream-laughing.

Terrifyingly intelligent.

-And then whatever idiot created this abomination made it big enough to ride and drool corrosive venom because everyone in that universe automatically doubles down on any bad idea they have.

Harrow is sobbing at it's mere existence.

Gideon is trying to cradle it in her arms. This is their daughter now.

"Daddy harrowhark put a bone in mommy griddlecakes and she made Princess Bonefucker Ultraviolence 9000 and birthed her with her own womb-" Gideon is saying aloud in the most babytalk voice possible to the gryphon, who is rolled over on its back and entirely agreeable with being smothered with affection, because if the Gryphon has a sole redeeming feature it's that it possesses the zen like chill that comes from the bone-deep knowledge that it is at the absolute apex of the local food chain.

It's also wearing Gideon's sunglasses.

They do not fit.

Gideon may spoil Princesss Bonefucker Ultraviolence 9000 but that animal is OBSESSED with Harrow. It's a real Daddy's Girl kind of creature, and it will attempt to eat the face of anyone that so much as looks at Harrow without her permission. Harrow isn't sure about this thing until it takes an actual shilouette-altering sized CHUNK out of Ortus' ass, and then she becomes very fond of Daddy's Special Little Apex Predator. She deigns to give it one (1) headpat, and is treated to Princess Bonefucker's "Happiness Noise", which sounds like someone threw a handful of gravel into a running garbage disposal.

"Why..?" Harrow asks, feeling the remaining edges of her sanity start to melt.

"Why not?" Asks Gideon, accurately reporting the entire thought process that went into the creation of this horror.

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

fuckfest. the slytherins — groupsome / drunk sex.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: malfoy manor is a great place for drinks, laughs, and…. orgys?

warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUTTTTTT, porn with negative 100 plot, literally just sex and mentions of alcohol, group of uni students that love to consensually gangbang when they have the chance (sorry i’m cackling at that), pansy and reader kiss a few times, multiple orgasms from some of the boys, anal sex, fingering, oral.

Habits are simple, predictable things, slipping into your life without much thought. Some are reckless, some harmless. And some, well—some come with the taste of someone else's lips.

You're not sure when kissing Pansy Parkinson became one of them. What started as a drunken dare, a little more fun than you'd planned for, has now undoubtedly turned into something else—something almost close to ritual. With every night that stretches long, every round of drinks that comes too fast, it's inevitable that your lips will find hers at one point or another, like clockwork.

And a habit is just a habit, but this one—this one you never feel like breaking.

"You ever try body shots with tequila?" Pansy whispers, breath warm against your lips as her smirk hooks you, the same way it always does.

"Plenty of times." You grin back, your mouth barely brushing hers. "What, you want me to lay back for you, Parkinson? Shirt pulled down—or off?"

Theo whistles, and Pansy giggles. They've seen this before, watched it unfold in countless variations, yet it's still equally as entertaining every single time.

"Pull it down, take it off, whatever gets me there faster." She's already moving, grabbing lime and salt with hands that are too steady for how much you've all been drinking. "You know I won't complain either way."

You pour her a shot, liquid gold catching the dim light in the room. You feel the weight of every inebriated gaze on you—Draco, Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo, Theo—all of them watching, same way they always do when you and Pansy put on a show.

You blink and she’s back in front of you, lime and salt in hand. You feel bold, drunk on the moment as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, leaning into her kiss only to break it as you pull the fabric over your head. The boys shift around you—more whistles—and Pansy's hands find your face, greedy and gentle all at once, barely giving you a moment to toss the shirt aside before she nudges you onto your back.

"You're so fucking hot," she purrs, slinking between you and the boys who are seated around the table, grinning. "Tilt your head, that's it—here—"

She nestles the cool shot glass between your tits while sprinkling the salt on your neck—then, the lime slice is between your teeth before you can even register it, and now you're staring straight at Blaise—his dark eyes roving over you like a feast, lips parted just enough that you can imagine the feel of them pressed against your own.

Your thighs tense, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"The boys wanted a show," Pansy whispers as she pulls off her own shirt. "They'll get one."

You hum in agreement and she works like she's done this a hundred times— shot glass disappearing between her lips, tossing the tequila back before she sets it aside— warm tongue dragging along the line of salt on your skin, moving up to suck juice from the lime between your lips. She meets your eyes for what feels like a split second before the lime is yanked free and her mouth is on yours, lips tasting like tequila and salt and something wild—

You close your eyes against the flood of sensation—the alcohol, the heat, the spinning of the room—and kiss her back with equal fervour. Her lips crush yours, sloppy and wild, a thousand impulses spinning through your mind and inevitably, you're too weak to fight them, tugging her closer as a result.

Pansy huffs, fingers curling into your hair as she crawls on top of you—straddling your hips on top of the table as one hand slips down to your chest. The boys are muttering things that you can't hear as the kiss is frantic now, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, the taste of lime and tequila lingering in each exhale.

"Gods, Pansy," you gasp into her mouth, hands sliding down her waist, digging into the fabric of her skirt. "You're insatiable."

She pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, her dark eyes glinting. "I could say the same about you, babe."

You feel the tension in her greedy fingers as they curl against your scalp, her weight pressing you down into the table, and suddenly—all the teasing, all the playing at flirting feels too far away—you need her closer, need to take control back, need to feel her beneath you instead of towering over you—

"Pans—" your hands find her hips, gripping tight as you push against her, trying to flip her onto her back—but in your haste, you misjudge the edge of the table and before you can stop her she's tumbling forward, off the side, straight into Draco's lap. "Oh—shit—"

Everyone gasps, the room pausing for a moment and you're vaguely aware of Blaise's hands clutching your waist, pulling you steady into his lap as you teeter off the table too, the tequila making your head spin. Pansy is sprawled over Draco on the floor, skirt hitched high enough to give the rest of you a perfect view of her ass—to which everyone in the room is admiring. Shamelessly.

It's a spectacle—and the boys have always loved a fucking spectacle.

"Merlin's sake—" Draco grunts as Pansy slumps over him, straddling his waist. You catch the way his hands grip her thighs, fingers flexing like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. "Always the bloody dramatics with you two.”

"I'm not even sorry." Pansy grins, unrepentant as ever as she leans into Draco's neck, teasing like nothing's even happened, like she's perfectly content to remain there, straddling his lap. "You make a good seat."

Draco scoffs, and Theo snickers from across the table.

"You're a menace." The words from Draco's lips sound a lot like praise, and something about the way his eyes flutter shut when Pansy's tongue finds the sensitive skin at his throat makes your mouth go dry. "You're alright, though?"

"Fine," she murmurs, though her tone suggests she's thinking of anything but her well-being. "Totally fine." Her fingers brush over his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt. "Are...are you fine?"

"I'm—" his voice catches when her fingers undo the first button. "I'm fine."

"You are," she agrees, voice a little hoarse, as she undoes the second, then the third. "Very, very fine."

Draco's face flushes, and there's a sheepish edge to his smile as his hands—almost without thought—begin to slide higher, fingers trailing under the hem of her skirt, pulling it just a little further up her hips. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second as he settles over the curve of her ass, and there's a spark, a shiver of something between them—

Your gaze flicks to Blaise, feeling his presence at your back—solid, grounding, the warmth of his chest pressed against you as you lean into him. You don't have to see him to know he's watching, though you find the confirmation anyways, his dark eyes tracing every movement, every shift between the two heated Slytherins on the floor.

When you glance back, you see the boys are all watching, too—Theo, Enzo, Mattheo—all glued to the sight, silent in their anticipation.

Pansy grinds down, and Draco's head tips back, eyes closed, hands clinging to her hips, her ass, anywhere he can find—

"They don't waste any time, do they?" Blaise murmurs, words a tickle at your pulse, the sound of his voice pulling you back into your own body, your own skin.

You shiver as his fingers trail lightly up your ribs, teasing the edge of your black lace bra—you tilt your head and you catch Theo's gaze sliding over you, flicking back and forth between Pansy's legs and the way Blaise's hands have begun their slow exploration along your sides. You grin as you meet Enzo's eyes next, his lip pulled between his teeth, fingers tracing the rim of his cup—

"You could take notes, Zabini," you murmur, the words catching in your throat as his lips graze your shoulder—so close, too close.

"Me? Take notes?" He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I've already got it down to a science, baby.”

"Yeah?" You hum, lost in the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his fingers are edging dangerously close to your breasts. You can feel Mattheo's gaze, burning into you from across the table, but you don't dare look, you'd crack if you did. "You sure about that?"

"Quiz me if you'd like." As if to prove his point, he pushes past the fabric of your bra, long fingers finding a nipple, and your hips twitch of their own accord, a gasp leaving your lips.  "I'll pass any test you give me."

"Cocky." There's a slight edge to your voice as you roll your hips, meeting his heat with your own—just to distract him, of course. "You're gonna' make the others jealous."

"They'll have their fun," his finger toys with the clasp of your bra, now. You feel him undo it. "I want you first."

"Oh," you gasp at the sensation of cool air against bare skin as he yanks it off your arms, exposing your tits to everyone at the table. "Cocky and greedy."

"You'd expect nothing less, baby." He practically growls.

You choke on a moan. "Blaise-"

"That's my name," he's groping, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you squeak. "I know you're real familiar with it."

Pansy's moans, soft and breathy, fill the space as Draco works her out of her skirt, mouth moving between her thighs. You clench—seeing them—her fingers in his hair, her gasps growing louder and more frantic—your pulse quickens—

"Jealous?" Blaise's taunts, having caught you staring.

You shake your head, but—Merlin, how could you not be? You'd give just about anything to relieve the heat between your thighs. To feel the heat of all the eyes watching you right now against your skin. Mattheo, Theo, Enzo—

"Not jealous." Even you can hear how breathless you sound. "Just impatient."

"Patience is a virtue," Blaise says, all mock-virtuousness, squeezing your tits again, as if to punish you for being impatient. "One I'm happy to reward—"

Mattheo is the first to snap, shoving the half-empty bottle of alcohol aside and standing up, chair scraping across the floor. Theo considers doing the same, you can tell, eyes still glued to your half-naked body as he drains his cup in one gulp. Your eyes flick to Enzo, who's merely staring, his lip still being bitten to death between his teeth.

Merlin help you.

Mattheo strolls around the table—eyes roaming as he moves, stopping just behind where you sit on Blaise's lap, breath warm on the back of your neck as he murmurs in your ear—

"I've been patient." You think it's to Blaise. "Where's my reward."

Blaise snorts, and then Theo stands up.

"We've been patient." He's looking at Blaise, lips just starting to grin. "Real, real patient."

Enzo laughs as he rises, too—all three of them forming a loose semi-circle around you and Blaise. You can almost taste the testosterone—hot and eager and hungry—as their eyes rake over you.

Blaise tugs you closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'm feeling outnumbered."

"You're outnumbered," Theo agrees, smirk growing as his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you off Blaise's lap and to your feet. "You're also outvoted. You think we're going to just sit around and watch?"

"Not a chance in hell," Mattheo growls as he moves behind you, calloused hand running up your thigh.

Blaise grunts from where he's still seated, watching you with molten eyes, "you lot are animals, you know that?"

You almost laugh at that, considering he had your bra off in minutes.

"We're just—eager." Theo whispers, leaning in just enough to breathe against your neck, kissing a path up your jaw while Mattheo's hands work at undoing your skirt. You're so turned on you're not sure how you're not dripping down your thighs. "I wanted to be inside you three fucking hours ago."

You whimper at his words, the thick air of the room suddenly too much as Mattheo's hands push your skirt down your legs.

"Three hours is generous." Enzo's moving now, but he isn't looking at you—his eyes are locked on Pansy as Draco slams into her—the two of them locked in a trance. "My head's been filled with filth since this afternoon."

"Filth?" Blaise cocks an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Filth," Mattheo husks, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat—lips pressed to your ear. "All I've been able to think about for the past week."

Your hips twitch at the pressure against your throat—and you moan louder than Pansy. "Gods—if one of you doesn't fuck me in the next minute—"

"Told you," Blaise chuckles, watching Mattheo's hand around your throat like a hawk. "Animal."

"Then what?" Mattheo ignores him—fingers pressing against your pulse just a little harder as he pulls you flush against him, teeth finding your ear, and you feel Theo's fingers trail down your front, teasing your slit. "What're you gonna do?"

"Fuck," you mutter, breathless, hips jerking toward the touch. "I'll die—"

"Oh, that's not good." Enzo's looking now, circling around to stand on your free side, his gaze traveling from your face, down your body, to where Theo's fingers are centimetres from pushing into your soaked cunt. "Is it our responsibility to prevent that?"

"Probably. It's only the right thing to do." Mattheo's cooes against your neck. "Can't have you dying on us, now can we?"

"Mm. Not the only," Theo murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he pushes a finger inside you. "I can think of a dozen things to do right now."

"A dozen?" Blaise scoffs. You're starting to hate the sound of his teasing fucking tone. "Only a dozen?"

You can't even reply—any words you possess are swallowed by another moan as a second, then a third, of Theo's fingers push deep into you. Even his fingers are long, you think. You forgot just how big—

"Merlin, Theo—fuck—"

"That's the idea," he grins against your lips—you moan again when his fingers curl deep.

"You like that?" Mattheos hands are all over you—your tits, your ass, the press of his chest against your bare back—and you think that you need to see his face, need to see his eyes. "You need more?"

"Yes." You're not sure if you're speaking to Mattheo, or Theo, or Enzo or Blaise, or all of them. "Yes, please—please—"

"Oh good," Blaise muses. "She's polite."

"Of course she is," Theo groans as your cunt clenches around his digits—your slick sounds filling the space between you, mingling with the sound of skin smacking from a few feet away. "So good for us."

"Mm," Mattheo adds, teeth scraping over your shoulder, squeezing your ass to make you gasp. "Very."

"A real angel," Enzo purrs, still circling like a fucking shark, eyes flitting over to Pansy and Draco again as her moans grow louder, more insistent. "Especially when she's begging."

It's all too much—Theo's fingers pumping deep, his thumb swirling your clit, the sounds of Draco and Pansy and the feel of hands and lips and intoxicated eyes everywhere—

Your head falls back against Mattheo’s shoulder. "Oh, please—fuck—please—"

"What're you begging for, Bellissima?" Theo murmurs, drawing your eyes back to his. "Wanna use your words?"

You gasp as his fingers move faster, deeper, as if he's trying to pull the words out of your throat. "Need—"

Blaise snickers. "Yes?"

"Need to cum—" you cry out, hysterical as Mattheo pinches your nipples, groans against your neck. "Need to be—fucked—"

"And I'm the greedy one." That's Blaise again, insufferable as ever.

"We like greedy," Theo grins against your mouth, fingers crooking, and your knees buckle. "Right, boys?"

"We do," Mattheo growls.

"We like it a lot," Enzo agrees, his eyes finally meeting yours. "We love it."

"Then what're you waiting for," you gasp, unable to take much more of the heat building, twisting, every point of contact sending a new wave of need through your body. "Give it to me—"

"Give you what?" It's Blaise again—God, he's driving you fucking insane tonight. "You gotta be more specific, babygirl."

"Give—ohh—" your orgasm is right there. Right. Fucking. There. "Give me your fucking dick, Zabini—fuck—you called first—"

"Oh I did, didn't I?" Blaise still hasn't moved from his seat, but you can see the way his trousers are straining. "Guess it's my lucky day."

Theo lets loose a groan, and you can feel his hips jerking in rhythm with his fingers. "Thank Merlin for small favours."

"Lucky for all of us, really." The corner of Blaise's mouth twitches, almost with the suggestion of a smile. "Don't you think, Enzo?"

Before you can even comprehend Enzo's response, Theo curls his fingers just right, thumb rubbing your clit just right, Mattheo groping your chest and kissing your neck just fucking right—and then you're there—climax charging you, release spilling all over Theo's fingers—

"Oh, fuck—yesyesyes—"

You cry out and shudder forward, only being held up by Theo and Mattheos hands, and you're barely back on earth before you feel Blaise's fingers under your thighs—urging you back and laying you out across the table as if you're a fucking feast for him—

"Patience," Blaise grins down at you, hands finding your thighs, squeezing hard enough to drag you back to reality and realize he's got his trousers undone. "Is really such a virtue."

"Right," you mumble, still breathless as you look up at him. "Too bad I'm fresh out."

Blaise chuckles at that. "I can tell."

Fuck this—

"Blaise—if you don't fuck me right now—" you push up from the table, urging him back into the chair he was sitting in. "I will let everyone else fuck me first and make goddamn sure you watch."

There's a flicker of surprise in Blaise's eyes as he slumps back in the chair—Mattheo snorts behind you and for a second you wonder if you may have just gone too far—

"Not a chance," he smiles, his words coming out in a growl that's all heat and lust and something just a little dangerous. "We'll have none of that."

And then, he's on his feet again. But this time, when he touches you, it’s firm and fast and not at all gentle. He directs you around the table before bending you over it, and you hear someone—Theo, you think?—groan like they're in pain, the sound swallowed by a desperate moan that you know for certain is Pansy's.

Your eyes flutter when you hear it—you just don't know where to look—

"No, look up. Up." Blaise's hand is in your hair, forcing you to look up from the table, and you realize where the sound came from. "I want you to watch."

Your head's spinning in a way you're sure is not entirely from the alcohol, and it only intensifies when your eyes focus on the scene just across the room—Draco and Pansy sprawled on the couch, now, Pansy riding him while stroking Enzo's insistent dick, his glossed eyes glued to yours, watching, just watching—

Blaise's hand is still in your hair. "That's it. Watch."

Enzo smiles at you, cheeky and fucking taunting before Pansy tightens her grip while jerking him off and his head tips back—

"Gonna' be good for me," Blaise murmurs against your back—his tip pressing against your dripping entrance. "Gonna' take it all for me?"

"Yes," you gasp, catching a glimpse of Mattheo and Theo just off to the side of you, sharing a smoke. "Fuck yes—"

"That's it, baby. Just relax," he cooes, and then he's pushing into you. "Relax and enjoy it—"

There's a sting as he stretches you, and keeps stretching you until he's bottoming out far fucking deeper than you'd remembered—there's a moan from you that gets tangled between your teeth, a gasp from infront you, a moan from someone else, and—gods, if Blaise doesn't start moving—

"Blaise—oh, fuck—"

Blaise gives a low moan as your walls flutter around him, a swear under his breath that's punctuated with a hard squeeze of your hip. "Good—god—Merlin—"

He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, shameless—and it melds with Pansy's from across the room.

"Shh," Mattheo steps infront of you, blocking your view of Pansy and Draco and Enzo. "Let Blaise feel you—"

—and suddenly, Mattheo's hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back, coaxing your eyes to his. His other hand disappears, down past his belt, and you moan again—wet walls squeezing Blaise as he slowly starts to rock into you.

"I wanna' fuck your throat," Mattheo murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. "Badly."

"So needy," your words are a breathless moan, but Mattheo doesn't seem to mind—he just grins as he unbuttons his trousers. "Can't even watch for five minutes without—"

"I know, I can't," he interrupts, and his hand's back at your jaw, gripping hard. "You've got me too fucking hard."

You're about to reply with another smartass comment, but Theo saddles up next to his fellow Slytherin and before you can blink his hand is on the back of your head, tangling in your hair, angling your lips toward Mattheo's now-exposed cock—

"Don't worry about the smart mouth," Theo leans down close to you, every intention of cutting off your reply. "We have other uses for it."

You'd probably roll your eyes at the phrase if it wasn't for Mattheo's dick pushing past your teeth and hitting the back of your throat so quick you gag— eyes squeezed shut as Blaise bottoms out, again and again.

"That's one of them." he adds with a smirk, watching you choke on his best friends dick.

You can't even think. Every thought that enters your head is immediately replaced with another moan, another sensation, another need, another—

"Draco! Fuck!" You hear Pansy cry out from the couch.

"Keep going, Pans," Enzo grunts, his voice sounding choked. "Just like that."

"She taking you good, Blaise?" The question comes out in a moan of his own—you think it's Draco—and you wonder idly who's doing what over there now. "Tight as I remember?"

“Tight and wet and—fuck—" Blaise's voice has taken on a new level of strangled, desperate, need that's almost too raw to hear it, and— "she's—good. She's good."

"That's it," Draco grunts again, like he's pleased to hear it. "She's an—oh, yes, Pansy, fuck—"

The noise from the couch is too much—you're not able to think past the fullness—the desperate, overwhelming heat that's consumed you, and that's when you feel a pair of lips at your ear—

"Does it feel good?" Theo's words are barely louder than a whisper, your gagging sounds almost drowning them out. He grabs your hand, slowly bringing it to his crotch. "Having us like this?"

Your fingers are clumsy, shaky as they wrap around him and try to push his trousers down—it's hard to see past the water in your eyes but once you do you're rewarded with a gasp and a low swear under his breath that sounds so damn good you want to hear it a million times more.

"Mmmfff." You moan around Mattheo as Blaise's fingers find your clit, coaxing you towards a high you're not sure you can handle—

"That's it," Theo whispers, moving your hand just the way he likes it. His fingers are tangled with yours while his free hand finds your hair again, shoving you closer to Mattheo. "Fuck. That's it."

Everything is spinning and whirling in the best way, the best possible way, and you know you're there, so close, but it's so hard to think, so hard to do anything—when—

"You gonna' cum for us, baby?" Another pair of lips at your ear, not Theo's voice, but Blaise's—ragged with his deep thrusts. "Gonna' cum for us good and hard?"

Your response, which most likely would have been something along the lines of: "yes" or "please" or "gods yes fucking please," is completely smothered by Mattheo—his hand at the back of your head alongside Theo's, fingers tangled in your hair, cockhead slamming the back of your throat over and over and over—

"Then do it," Blaise knows your answer anyways. His fingers rub quicker, his hips piston faster. "Now."

And it's in this moment where you lose yourself completely—the world narrows down to your body, every sensation flooding through you, and the fucking sounds—Pansy's moans, Theo's groans, Blaise's pants, Mattheo's swearing, Draco's whimpers and Enzo's fucking grunting—where you can't do a goddamn thing to stop it, not that you even wanted to. You do what Blaise told you, cumming so hard you see stars behind your eyes, and for one blissful, everlasting second—you feel nothing but pure unadulterated pleasure, until it all comes rushing back with force.

You think you hear Theo say "good girl" as your body tenses—shaking, trembling, clenching around Blaise so hard his pace falters and his hips slow and his thrusts turn erratic—and then you feel it—the result of his pent up passion as he slows to to an absolute standstill—spilling his cum deep into your cunt while he shudders against you, gasping out a curse that might have been your name.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, slowly—carefully—and you feel him pull out of you just as Mattheo moans, hands tightening in your hair, spilling his own release down your throat. "Oh, sweet Merlin."

It takes a moment for reality to filter back in, and you try to catch your breath in a way that's probably not very dignified. You're not quite sure what to do with yourself—and quite frankly, you're not given the chance to figure it out as Mattheo pulls out too and Theo slips up behind you—

"Come here, Bella," he murmurs, his lips at your ear again—he sounds like he's trying to catch his breath, too. Through the fog you remember that at one point you were jerking him off—and you feel the confirmation of his need still hard against your ass as he pulls you up against him. "There we go. Easy now."

You try to speak—you're not sure what you would even say—but your voice is as shaky as the rest of you, and all that comes out is a soft moan.

"She's—" Blaise's still trying to steady his breath as he slumps into his prior chair, trousers still half undone. "—she's on mars."

"I've a feeling we all are," Theo mutters, holding you against him. His fingers skim down your stomach, almost like he's mapping out the aftershocks. "Some more than others."

You can almost feel the way his eyes flick across the room with that—noting the way Draco's splayed out on the couch next to Pansy who's now riding Enzo and jerking a still half-hard Mattheo—

"Oh, relax," Draco scoffs, eyes shut and head tipped toward the ceiling. "I'll rejoin the land of the living in a moment."

"Sure, Draco," Mattheo huffs, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes from here. "We'll be here when you do."

"Mm—fuck, Pansy—"

Enzo's moan cuts through their bantering and it's at that moment where Theo finally decides he's waited long enough—he grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the table, directing you to the couch where he slumps down and drags you into his lap, your thighs on either side of his—throbbing, leaking cock pressing against your cum soaked cunt.

You moan, and Pansy moans beside you.

"I think," Theo murmurs into your neck, his words as thick and as needy as his hardness, "I could get used to this."

"S'that right?" You try to keep your words cool, to be as unaffected as you'd like, but—there's no hiding the way your breath hitches, the way you move your hips just the slightest in his lap. "I can't say the same about your size."

"Take me at your own pace." He husks, a smirk you're sure is attached to the words. "I'm halfway there already from that handjob."

You'd laugh at that if you weren't still so breathless and shaky from before, so instead the laugh comes out as a needy moan as you slide forward, shifting in his lap until you feel his tip brush up against your already sensitive clit—

"Gods," you breathe out the word, bracing your hands on his shoulders. "Such a gentleman."

"Always," he replies, completely sincere just before his hands grab your hips and in one quick motion—he's guiding you down onto him. "Always for you."

You'd reply—you'd probably even say something that might be sweet, if you could, if the rest of the world didn't fade into a sort of pleasurable blankness as you sink down—down until the moan that leaves you is so unbridled that it should have been embarrassing if the whole fucking lot of you weren't so far passed embarrassment—because just the head of him is so thick and you're suddenly thankful Blaise stretched you out so deliciously because otherwise you think it'd be too much, too quick and—fuck.

You're still sensitive, and you know he can tell—

"Oh, she's tight." Theo's voice is low in your ear, his lips tracing your jawline. "Too much?"

"Never," you gasp out, offering some weak shake of your head. "Never too much."

He grins against your pulse, teeth scraping across your skin—

"Good."

He punctuates the word by sinking you down a bit more, the stretch of his shaft drawing out a moan from deep in your chest—

"And when it is?"

—he pauses, tightening his grip on your hips to pull you up slightly before sliding you back down—

"Tell me."

You're only half able to form the thought at this point—the other half of you is so preoccupied with the feeling of his hands holding you, his lips against your skin, his voice in your ear—you nod, anyway, and there's another moan from somewhere in the room—Enzo again, and it's more of a whimper than anything else.

"That’s it, Pansy, so good—"

"Feels good, Enzy?" Her response comes through gasps. "You like it like that?"

Blaise answers for them both—you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, slumped back in his chair with a new drink in hand. "Keep that up and he'll never leave that couch again."

"He's not the only one." Theo's words vibrate through you, and while you're not sure if it's the meaning behind them or the way they're sent deep into your neck with a hint of teeth, either way you have to swallow a moan before you can respond.

"Is that so?" You reply, doing your goddamn best to keep your voice steady as Theo's hips roll up into you again.

"It is so," he murmurs. "You think you can handle staying on this couch all summer?"

Summer. Hardly a week away. You think of the days and nights you're going to spend in this manor, in this room—in this room on this fucking couch—

His hands slip to your ass, guiding you up and down. "You think you could last another hour?"

"Mmm," you manage to get the sound out before he rolls up again, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive spot somewhere deep inside you and that's all you have to say before all other higher level thinking goes out the window. "Oh, Theo, you’re fucking deep—"

"I know," he replies, his breath harsh against your throat, his words lost between the moans you can't seem to keep from slipping out. "I know, bella, I know—"

Cocky bastard.

You lean down, pulling his head against your chest with hands in his hair and he follows. You'd think he'd try to pull back, just to say something witty with a smirk on his face—but instead he groans, his tongue flicking over your nipple and that's when you hear Mattheo grunt from somewhere beside you—

"Fuck me." His voice comes out as a gasp that he's struggling to keep from sounding strangled. Pansy's still lazily stroking him, multitasking while riding Enzo. "I'm so fucking hard again."

If you could manage a proper response, you might have said that was the idea—you'd probably have said something very clever about how you wouldn't mind letting him down your throat again.

You can still think, but the thought is a struggle, so all you manage is a breathless—

"Matt—“

"Mmm?" Hardly a hum—and for some reason it's so much more attractive than it probably should be. "Yes, princess?"

The way you shiver at the pet name is something you're going to have to examine at some point—not now, though, because if you have to put any more thought into any single thing you're going to explode.

"You—you—"

Theo interrupts before you can finish the sentence. "Fuck her, Riddle."

If Mattheo's surprise at Theo's apparent order is evident, it's masked by the moan he lets out as Pansy does something that must have felt especially good.

"I, fuck—I already fucked her throat, Nott. If you'd finish gatekeeping her—"

"She's got another hole, Riddle," Theo replies, with that self-assured tone that's too goddamn cocky to be legal and you wonder absently if he knows what it does to you as he gives a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips. "She can handle it, can't you, bella?"

You try to moan out an answer—you're sure there's a sound there—anything to let him know that yes, you not only can but that you're not sure there's anything you'd rather do—yet the words die before you can get them out as Mattheo is already moving—rough hands finding your ass, spreading your cheeks as he leans down to press a kiss to the dimples on your lower back. The sensation catches you off guard but you don't have time to think about that before you feel something wet—his saliva, you think—slick between your cheeks and then his fingers are there, rubbing and massaging against your tight hole—

And then, he's pressing a finger into you. "Oh—"

You're not even sure if your gasp is a reaction to Theo's movement or Mattheo's—all you know is that for a moment it all just combines into a whirlwind that seems to just drown all the oxygen out of your lungs completely—

"I know," Theo's breath is as laboured and rough as yours—the rumble of his words vibrating against your chest, your collarbone. "God, I know—"

"Jesus," another moan, strangled and needy, and it's not from you or Theo or even Enzo—it's from Mattheo. "Oh, this ass is tight—"

That's not something you're going to be able to get over—hearing that coming from him. "Oh fuck, Matt—"

"Mmm?" There's a smile in his voice—and you'd see it on his face if you were facing him, if all of his focus weren't so decidedly somewhere else. "You want me to fuck this perfect ass, don’t you?"

With that he pushes another finger into you while Theo wraps his arms around your waist to hold you steady to his chest. His hips cant up into you, and you swear you're on fire—Mattheo chuckles.

The sensation is so much you’re crying out again, his teasing turning infuriating. "You're a goddamn—ah—bastard—"

"Maybe so," he replies, with a smack to one of your asscheeks. "But a bastard that's going to—"

He stretches you out, pumping and scissoring slow, just as deliberate as everything else he does—and the moan you let out is enough to drown out whatever witty, dirty words you're sure he was going to follow that with—

"Fuck—fuck," the word is all you can manage as you brace your hands against Theo's shoulders, nails digging into his skin— "oh, fuck—"

Mattheo groans against your back and you swear it's intentional because he has to know what all of this is doing to you—what it's doing to Theo by association.

"Fuck, she likes that—" Theo's gasp hits you like a punch in the gut. "I should have—"

It's like there's a whole sentence, some snarky, perfectly articulate statement he had in mind, but whatever words it was comprised of are lost in the way he shivers—in the way his hips jerk more erratically due to how tight you're squeezing him—due to the way your walls spasm as Mattheos fingers keep pumping, stretching—

"Should have what?" It's a miracle you manage the words, and you're feeling particularly proud about the way it's more of a challenge than a question, even if it's half mumbled.

Whatever it is, he can't say it, and whatever retort you had for that is interrupted by the sound of a grunt—Enzo. His face is screwed up in pleasure, his breath is coming in ragged, uneven pants and there's a look in his eyes that looks distinctly broken.

Mattheo groans and pulls his fingers free. You feel the tip of his dick replacing them. "Can’t fucking wait any longer."

Enzo's eyes meet yours, then, and they're absolutely wrecked. "I'm going to—"

Pansy grins and moans out her reply. "Yeah, you are."

There's little else you can say—not that you'd have the words even if you weren't as lost as the rest of them. You just have a flash of thought about how you've never seen Enzo look like that before, open and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of whatever bliss he's riding right now, but then there's another feral moan escaping your lips—

"Oh, Gods, Mattheo!—"

Theo groans into your neck as Mattheo presses in and it takes merely two seconds before your eyes roll back—the way he sinks into your ass is a level of fullness you weren't sure you could reach, and even that's a thought that's too complex for you to process as your head drops, forehead pressed to Theo's shoulder.

There's a hiss from his lips, another muttered curse that you half catch as he bites at your collarbone, his hands moving back to squeeze your hips—

"Fuck, yes," Mattheo's voice sounds more strained than you've ever heard it. "Jesus Christ, that feels good—"

"Don't think the saviour would like you taking his name in vain," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room. "Not in this scenario at least."

No, he wouldn't, you think, but there's no way you've got the wherewithal to speak now—any focus you had is lost now that you're impaled on not one, but two cocks and it's like your entire nervous system's been turned over to the sensation of being so fucking full, so surrounded—of not being able to do anything except try to remember how to breathe.

It's not working very well.

"Mm," Theo's moans, fucking up into you nice and slow. "I think he'd understand."

"I think that's a rather blasphemous stance to take," Blaise replies. "Then again, given the scenario, perhaps that's not the most shocking revelation I've had of you all today."

"Blaise," Enzo groans, his tone somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Are you really going to try and have a conversation right now?"

"Just making an observation," Blaise says casually, and you swear that part of your brain that still functions can see the smirk plastered on his face in your mind. "Merely commenting about the depravity on display."

"Your commentary is duly noted," Mattheo breathes, his words punctuated by a low moan as he smacks your ass. "And dismissed."

There's a grumble of agreement through the room at that, including one from you, but all your words come out as a gasp—

Theo loves you like this. You can tell he's fucking savouring it. "That's it, bella. You don't need to do more than that."

Part of you wants to protest the statement, wants to argue that you have it in you to contribute more, but no matter how hard you try—and you do try—all that comes out around the moans is an inarticulate mess.

"Yeah, that's it," Mattheo groans, and you'd be embarrassed about how utterly ruined by all of this you are if you could focus on anything other than the two dicks pumping you in rhythm. "Just let me and Nott take care of your—mmf—tight fuckin' holes."

There's a whine that worms its way out of your chest and through your lips at that, and you don't know what it's begging for—just that it's begging, and all your mind cares about right now is that Theo and Mattheo understand that.

Theo's response is a moan of his own and a hand finding the back of your neck, his fingers wrapping around your hair. "So fucking wet—tight—"

"And taking us so goddamn well," Mattheo adds as one of his hands grab your ass again, spreading you open. "Fucking hell—I'm so close—"

"So are we," Theo responds for you, and the words are harsh and desperate and make your whole body shudder. "So—ah—so are we—"

The realization that he can feel how close you are makes you clench—walls fluttering around the both of them as they fuck you tempered—it’s only a few more seconds before you're seeing stars so bright you hardly register the sounds of Enzo and Pansy reaching their climaxes next to you—the feeling of Pansy crashing her lips to yours as she cums and moans into your mouth propelling you further over the edge, into your own ecstasy—

And if there were a way to describe it, you're sure you'd think of it later, but right now it's all just fire and lightning—pleasure wracking your body until you're certain you're not going to come down for hours. You can't really hear anything—just the rushing of your own blood pulsing in your ears—but as it starts to subside, your vision returns and the sound follows—your lips still pressed to Pansy's as Theo moans underneath you, spilling his release into your cunt while Mattheo is still thrusting slow—

"Oh my god," you gasp as you break the kiss, all of you breathing so hard you're sure it's going to take a while for the oxygen levels in the room to return to normal. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

"Mmm," is about all Theo seems to be capable of currently.

It’s a rare thing for him to be rendered speechless—and you'd grin at the knowledge if it weren't for Mattheo still thrusting deep in your ass—leaving Theo trapped inside your cunt, his length still twitching and throbbing within your walls.

"Still with us, princess?" Mattheo's chuckle is somewhat strangled, and the hand he's not gripping your ass with finds your hair again, tugging your head back to expose your neck. "You aren't done already, are you?"

If he expects—or even wants—an actual answer to that question, he's going to be very disappointed because all you can manage is a strangled half-moan that's a decent representation to how you're feeling right now—

"I think she's lost her words," Mattheo murmurs—and then it's like he realizes something. "Maybe we should test that."

"Wha—"

It's not a proper word, but you don't even have the chance to fully get it out before his hand in your hair is pulling your head back even further and you realize that at some point Pansy had gotten off of Enzo and he's now kneeling on the couch in front of you with his cum covered cock aimed directly at your lips—

"Clean me off."

It's another demand you'd probably be inclined to respond to with a snarky reply if you were at all confident in your ability to do anything other than open your mouth and let him press the tip to your tongue—

"Good girl," Enzo says, and the praise is delivered with that voice that sounds like it came from some dark place inside him, the one that's only ever really appeared in the privacy of these walls and with this group of people. "Taste your bestfriend on me, hm? You like that?"

It's a question you'd probably deny a few months ago, but that's not the case anymore—and you know that the answer would be obvious regardless, given how you've just proven you're more than happy to share them with her. So instead you give an answer that's a better representation of how you feel without having to admit it, and it only comes out as a hum of agreement as you taste her.

"I know you do," Enzo replies, and he's got that same smirk he usually has when he's got the upper hand, the one that usually makes you feel at least mildly put out—now it just makes you shiver. "Little slut."

Theo, who's still trapped underneath you and still half hard inside you, moans at that.

"Mmmm-" yes, you want to say, but you can't and the noise you manage instead, around the taste of your bestfriend on your tongue, comes out more like a whimper that has absolutely no business doing as much to you as it does.

Mattheo growls with a deep thrust into your ass, and the whimper turns into a whine as Pansy moves closer to you.

"You look pretty," she murmurs, her mouth pressed against your hair as Enzo pushes his dick deeper down your throat. "You look so fucking pretty right now."

There's something about that, the way her voice caresses the words, that makes something warm rush through you, wrapping around the bliss and squeezing until you're almost overwhelmed again.

Your eyes water, as you gag. "Mmgh—"

"Mhmm," her lips move down your cheek, next to your mouth where Enzo is still slowly fucking it, and it's like the action is deliberate—a way to show, without saying it outright, just how wrecked you are. "And you say I'm insatiable."

That's fair, because right now you're fairly certain you've never wanted something to continue forever quite as much as you do this, regardless of the fact that you know it's not practical.

"Ah, fuck—" Mattheo grunts with a messy thrust. “Oh, fuck—"

He's not the most loquacious person in the world but even he is having a hard time getting words out—and you're not much better, with the only sounds you're capable of making completely indecipherable even for you, let alone the rest of the room.

"Fuck—" with a final curse, he spills his release deep into your ass and Theo groans from under you as you clench as a result. "—yes."

The feeling of him twitching and spilling inside you makes you moan around Enzo, and he groans too—one hand tangled in your hair and the other tangled in Pansy's to keep her close—

"Mm, yes," Enzo moans now, jerking his hips toward your face. "Feels good—so good—“

—and close is an apt word because they're all close to you, all surrounding you—even Blaise and Draco's exhausted presence are felt in the background.

"I'm pretty sure she's gonna be sore for days after this," Pansy says, the words whispered. "I hope you all know—"

"I think she'll be thanking us for that," Theo replies before anyone else can. "In a day or two at least."

Pansy giggles, a sound that's soft and familiar and comforting even in this current state of being surrounded and overwhelmed, and her cheek brushes up against yours as the two of you peer up at Enzo—

"You're probably right." She whispers.

Enzo grunts, pulling his cock from your mouth and offering it to Pansy who greedily takes it in her own—

"Selfless generosity," Theo murmurs from directly under your chin having just witnessed that, and his tone suggests he's got his signature smirk in place. "How noble of us."

"Very selfless," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room again—and even as you're lost in pleasure you know that statement borders on sarcastic. "Absolutely nothing in it for any of you."

"Nothing at all," Theo replies, the same amount of sarcasm in his voice as Blaise's. "It's all self-sacrifice."

"Mm," Mattheo murmurs against your shoulder, before he pushes himself off you and finally pulls out. "Not even a shred of personal satisfaction."

You're still collapsed on top of Theo, as boneless as a human being can be, and a quiet whine escapes your lips at the loss before you can stop it.

"See," Theo murmurs, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "We've practically made a martyr of ourselves here. Selflessness at its finest."

"So humble," Blaise says, and you swear you hear the eyeroll that's almost certainly included. "I think this calls for medals and a parade through the streets. A holiday, maybe. Selfless Slytherin Day."

Enzo huffs—you can tell he's considering telling Blaise to shut up before he ruins his orgasm but as Pansy drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he seems to forget about it—

"Absolutely," Mattheo says—and if you had the strength to lift your head and look at him there'd likely be a smug smirk on his face. "I'd volunteer to be parade marshall, personally."

Enzo pulls out of Pansy's mouth with a gasp—and it's all but two seconds before he sprays sticky jets of cum all over your face and hers, his head tipping back as he does—

"I'm sure you would," Blaise says dryly, his voice coming from closer now than before. "I'm sure you would also volunteer to accept the medal, and then offer a speech about how humble you are."

"Mhm,” Mattheo sounds unbothered. You know he is. "Obviously. Someone's got to make sure the truth is told."

Pansy giggles against your face, then, before her tongue drags across your cheek, collecting some of Enzo's release. "Well, it's no good if you all are going to keep doing a poor job at the selflessness part.”

"I think we're well past the point of pretending we're doing this selflessly," Theo mutters dryly as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "If we were capable of that level of pretending, we'd all be in Ravenclaw."

Your hands find Pansy's hair, holding her close to you as you lick Enzo's cum off her chin and jaw.

"You're welcome to switch houses if you'd like," Blaise responds dryly. "Some of us were sorted to our houses for reasons other than self-satisfaction—"

"Oh, shove it, Zabini," Enzo says as his breath comes back. "You're acting like a bloody dad."

Blaise opens his mouth, presumably to offer some kind of sharp retort, but before they have a chance, Pansy cuts in. "If you're all quite finished with the pissing contest—“

"We've been done for minutes," Theo replies quickly, hand now stroking through your hair. "Now we're just bickering for the sake of it, as usual."

"Which means we've got at least another half an hour to go," Blaise mutters—before apparently giving up all attempt at sounding cool and collected and flopping down on the nearest open section of sofa.

"At least," Mattheo agrees. "Maybe an hour, if we're lucky."

Next to you, Enzo grunts out a laugh as he starts trying to fix himself back to modesty. "Lucky is one word for it—"

"I think lucky is an excellent term for the current state of things," Theo replies, his voice all smooth and silky and perfectly at fucking ease. "In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of anything more lucky than getting to experience this."

Everyone is in agreement, at that.

[shotmrmiller]

ghost getting himself a cute, soft girl he doesn't talk about much but is clearly obsessed with and price just thinks it's nice he's finally settled down, approves of the home he's made for himself, definitely approves of the one he's taken for himself.

soap asks kyle if he's seen you and he says, "yep. lovely bird he's got tucked away in her little dollhouse. makes great food, too." soap swears there's a subtle shift in his tone when he says "lovely", a hint of something deeper that flickers in his eyes for just a moment. soap simply sucks on his teeth, letting it slide. (although he knows that kyle's always been one to appreciate the good things in life.)

interest gnaws at him, a persistent itch he can't scratch. price likes you just fine, as does kyle. well what about him? he decides to bite the bullet and goes to simon with a knot between his brows, the corners of his lips tugged downwards. they've shared clothes, bullets, beds. if the other two got to meet you, why can't he?

"ya can come over for dinner on tonight. she'd 'ave my neck if she didn't formally meet ya anyway."

soap then asks, out of genuine curiosity more than anything else, if simon would have kept you in the dark from him hadn't he brought you up himself.

"ya meet 'er when i want ya to, boy, and not a moment before." the tone he takes is unmistakeable. his words are a command, not a suggestion, and soap instantly knows to not push further.

soap nods. "ah'll be there."

"course ya will. she'd be terribly disappointed otherwise."

yeah, he'd hate to have that.

soap sits in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the cozy place. with a full stomach and an unfastened belt, nursing a glass of kentucky. he can't remember the last time he ate that well or that much.

maybe it's the alcohol that loosens his tongue, or the fact that he wishes he also had a sweet little thing to keep at his side just like simon's doing with you now, but the thoughts he's been mulling over all evening since he first saw you tumble out of his mouth.

"while ah can attest to yer taste in sweethearts, can't say much about your alcohol. bourbon, LT?" he says, chest warm.

simon's arm tightens around your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh. he shrugs, completely unbothered by the backhanded compliment. "can't be perfect in everythin', can we, sergeant?"

soap's cheeks burn furiously hot when you come to his defense with a smack of your palm onto simon's chest. "be nice to johnny. he's got a face that make up for some of his other flaws."

the teasing lilt in your voice unashamedly gets his southern blood pumping. he can't help it if certain things stir when someone as pretty as you look at him like that. soap swirls the amber liquid gently in the glass while keeping his limpid eyes on you, not even trying to hide the fact that his gaze hasn't wavered since your cheeky little comment.

you then whisper something in simon's ear, your cupped hand not even half the size of his head and soap has to rearrange himself from the outside when your teeth catch your bottom lip. simon looks up at you then, eyes heavy and half lidded, and a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

"'m not sure, love. you'll just 'ave to ask 'im yourself. go on."

you open that sweet mouth of yours, but simon cuts you off with a decisive wave of his hand. "no. you know how to ask for things."

your reaction to that is visceral, and you're on your knees faster than his alcohol-muddled brain can comprehend. don't look down 'er shirt, don't look down 'er shirt, don't-

"johnny, will you touch my pussy?"

he splutters at your question, completely taken aback, but it seems you're not done just yet.

"hands to yourself, sergeant. tha' not all."

you pout at simon, one that earns you a look that promises consequence, but do as he says.

"will you touch my pussy, johnny? pretty please?"

[nereidprinc3ss]

fixation

in which you love spencer reid's hands so much you could... well, you could practically eat them. or at least let him put his fingers in your mouth.

18+ (fluff, suggestive) warnings/tags: finger sucking...lol....., established relationship, ummmm d/s adjacent dynamics, like softdom spencer but there's no sex, pet names, teasing a/n: this was inspired by @gublersg1rl who said 2 nights ago she would suck spencer's fingers as he was reading a book. my beautiful angel with so many great ideas in her beautiful head. anyway this will not be my magnum opus in terms of quality but its just a fun short little thing I hope u like :D

Spencer is reading. 

He got home forty five minutes ago, and he’d hugged you and he’d kissed you—and they were good hugs and kisses, but as you sit curled on the opposite end of the couch from him, watching him read, it doesn’t feel like enough. Three days isn’t the longest he’s been gone, but you missed him like he was gone longer. And now, he’s not truly ignoring you—but he’s not giving you enough attention. It’s unintentional, but it’s making you feel all kinds of needy and overly-affectionate anyway. 

Especially when he’s so gorgeous. Ankle crossed over knee, lithe fingers skimming over the page to keep track of his place. Those hands are truly distracting. It’s unlike you to be struck by such wildly inappropriate thoughts so out of context, but here you are, having been without him for days, practically feverish on the couch as you imagine all the things they could do. All the things they have done. The way they've traced down your bare spine, up your side, so lovingly in the middle of the night... how they've touched you elsewhere...

And... that's enough.

Despite the whole committed relationship thing, you still feel a bit scandalized picturing him like that. And you know from experience these thoughts will only get worse if you stay over here, staring at him, wanting him, so you crawl across the couch and under his arm, settling your head in his lap and looking up at him expectantly. He chuckles—a quiet, dry thing, that says he’s only partially surprised by your behavior. 

“Well hello,” Spencer says, taking one hand off the book to settle on your leg. 

“Hi.”

For a moment he just studies you, affection seeping into his eyes along with the humor already there. “Can I help you?”

“Mhm.”

His brow darts up. 

“With what, baby?”

Baby. Your whole body tingles. He only calls you that when he’s feeling especially soft toward you and your whims. In turn you soften, and you both become rather mushy. 

Unfortunately your brain is not excluded from melting, and you look up at him helplessly. 

“Um…”

Spencer’s hand falls from your knee, taking an unnecessary but appreciated route down your thigh and up your stomach before settling on your cheek. He brushes away a few baby hairs before two knuckles begin drawing soft lines from the corner of your mouth up toward your ear and back again, and your stomach becomes a hail of butterflies. He’s got this soft smile on his face and you love him so much and he’s so sweet and perfect, you could just—

You’re not thinking very clearly when you tilt your head, angling your chin up until you catch his fingers against your lips. His eyes remain on yours as he traces the shape of your mouth with those same two knuckles—until you’re slowly parting, obstructing his path and offering a very different kind of invitation. Spencer’s eyes narrow fractionally and you watch the way his focus changes, the way he only tests the waters at first, letting the tips of his fingers trace the length of your bottom lip, before barely tugging down just enough to feel the soft warmth of the border of it. They skate over the ridge of your teeth and find the tip of your tongue, at which point you can’t help from closing your lips around his fingers, eyes fluttering contentedly as you draw them deeper into your mouth. His brows draw together, and those pretty pink lips part soundlessly like you’re the eighth wonder of the world in a way that has your thighs clenching. You hear the book shut and fall carelessly to the side table. He doesn’t even bother saving his place—too busy bringing that newly freed hand to your hair and combing gently against your scalp. 

It’s strangely calming to have him like this—he’s undeniably with you, undeniably close, against your lips and tongue. All your worries about his distance dissolve and you feel incredibly comforted. With his other hand, his thumb begins stroking a line from the bridge of your nose up your forehead, and you could pass out. 

“Comfy?” He asks after a long moment, slowly withdrawing his fingers from the heat of your mouth. You pout. 

“I was.”

Spencer hums, eyes soft on you. “I don’t think I should be nurturing your oral fixation, angel.”

“You didn’t like it?” You challenge, turning your head inward to nose at his stomach. He  cups your cheek with damp fingers and pointedly turns your head outward again. If he wasn’t so blushy and flustered and cute you might’ve cared more about the feeling of your own spit on your skin. 

“Don’t make it about me.”

You allow a minute to pass in silence. 

Fine.

“I liked it,” you say shyly. 

Spencer’s response is deeply fond as he smiles down at you. “Did you?”

Like he couldn’t tell. 

“Mhm. You should let me do it all the time.”

His smile flickers wider the way it does when he’s about to tease you. 

“I don’t know if you deserve it. I don’t know if you can be good all the time.”

You make a face. “Shut up.”

“Is that what we say when we want something?” Before he can pull his hand away, you nip at his fingers. He laughs. “You’re off to a terrible start. I think you need to work on your manners. Not bite the hand that… goes in your mouth.”

“Is that the saying?”

“I’m pretty sure,” he nods sarcastically, helping you up until you’re sitting across his lap. He lovingly tucks hair behind your ear, eyes warm as they flit across your face up close. “You know, that was incredibly unhygienic. So much bacteria it boggles the mind.”

“Yeah? That kinda turns me on.”

Spencer leans in to kiss you sweetly, choosing your mouth over his worry about bacterial transmission. “You are so psychologically concerning,” he whispers against your lips. You sling your arms around his neck. 

“Because of the bacteria thing or the oral fixation thing?”

His hands settle on your hips. “Both, lovely. For so many reasons.”

It’s only another tease, but you pull back anyway so he can see the full force of your pout. “Don’t say that. It’s mean.”

“I was kidding! It was a joke. I was joking.”

“It was mean.”

“Okay,” Spencer begins, patient and happy to untangle this ridiculous snag if that’s what it takes to make you content again, “Freud’s psychosexual stages of development are contentious at best. I’m not worried about your oral fixation because I don’t really believe in such a thing. I was just teasing you, but I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“So you’ll let me do it again?”

Spencer pulls you back into another kiss. 

“You’re kind of insatiable, you know that?” 

When you don’t answer, only wait for him to respond, he sighs goodnaturedly. 

“You know you can have any part of me whenever you want it.”

You give him a winning smile and kiss his cheek in reward. 

“You’re so nice, Spence.”

“I thought I was mean.” 

“Now you’re nice.”

“Because you got what you wanted?” You nod enthusiastically. He seems not quite as thrilled, though perhaps distantly amused by his own helplessness when it comes to you. “Yeah, I feel like that happens a lot, doesn’t it?”

But it clearly doesn’t bother him that much. He’s still smiling when you kiss him again. 

[enhaflixer]

pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

-

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

-

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

-

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

-

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

-

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

-

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

-

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

-

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

-

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

-

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

-

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

-

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

-

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after 

the end.

fin.

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

[invoncible]

How about Mark variants with a Cecil daughter reader? Thought it would be an interesting idea

VARIANTS!MARK GRAYSON & stedman! reader ✧˚. cw. canon typical violence/themes (ex. cannibalism)

you were your father's right hand. the perfect blend of danger and kindness, you were a rare bridge between the younger members of the guardians and the older guys at the GDA, your father included.

when the war started, it was unlike anything the earth encountered before and beyond what any country was prepared for. the GDA struggled to corral one invincible—a dozen was just overkill. if humanity did not have their indomitable spirit, surely governments would just lay down and die.

but not your dad and certainly not 🗣️🦅🤠 AMERICA 🗣️🦅🏈🗽!

so you were sent out into the field. unfortunately, you were getting the sense that they knew you... and weren't so kind to you in their dimensions...

"lookie here," mohawk mark grinned fearsomely as he floated above you. "little stedman. man, it's been so long since i've seen your face."

"why's that?" you cocked your gun, standing before him without a tense bone in your body. if cecil taught you anything, it was how to fake it til you make it.

"killed ya," he sang teasingly. "personally broke you in half for being a fucking pest. you were almost as annoying as your old man."

"mm." you hummed, ignoring the feeling of dread in your stomach. your father might have taught you to stand strong, but there was just something about staring death in the face that made a person anxious.

there was a high chance you could die here. they've all done it once before, apparently. great.

the other marks gathered over the original mark's residence. you were supposed to gather debbie and oliver, but intel was faulty and they had fled on their own. good for them, bad for you.

omnimark paused, studying you as he drew closer. his red cape wafted in the wind as he descended. it would have been majestic if he wasn't, you know... a murderer.

"i know you well enough to read you like a book. i can tell you're scared." onmimark observed you, swirling around you inquisitively.

this was bullshit. they were just playing with their food at this point, hovering around you like vultures too impatient to wait for your death.

"i call dibs," sinister shoved past omnimark, his lips curling into a salivating grin. "you were most delicious back home."

startled by the notion, you blinked and snapped, "what?"

"yeah. i ate you."

"what the fuck—"

"can it." prison mark bulldozed through his peers, aggravated by the chatter. "i'm the only one who hasn't got to kill them yet."

"so?" mohawk mark scoffed and rolled his eyes.

you shook your head, shrugging off your nerves and stepped back. aiming your gun directly between his skull, you tried to dismiss the condescending expression that you were faced with.

mohawk mark chuckled and walked forward, bending at the waist and pressing his forehead right up against the barrel.

"shoot me," he said lowly, a big smirk on his face. the more he looked at you, the more he saw the shake of your eyes, the more excited he got. it's been a while since he's gotten so much thrill from a kill, and you were the most thrilling of all. "you know you can't hurt me."

you glared at him, phasing out of sight in an instant. mark's eyes widened in faint surprise when you vanished.

you teleported directly to their sides, gun aiming down the canal of their ears. praying for all the strength and accuracy in the world, you let eight precise bullets fly, blasting their way down through their suits and into their ears.

they all stumbled through the air at the impact, shaking their head like maracas to locate the bullet.

"dumb bunny," mohawk mark snarled, brushing the blood from his nose as he grimaced in discomfort. "told you, you can't hurt us."

"i see their stupidity transcends dimensions," viltrumite mark commented plainly. he shook his head to one side in an attempt to dislodge the bullet like he was getting pool water out of his ear.

you swallowed a shaky breath and set your stance, whipping out the control for the implants. you hoped they were able to worm their way deep inside like you programmed them to.

"those aren't regular bullets, dickheads." you snapped, bringing your thumb down on the red button.

the piercing shrill of the underwater kaiju that disarmed the original mark rang through the air, pulsing into their skulls painfully. their flight stuttered before dropping completely, collapsing to the ground like flies. they clawed at their heads uselessly as the grating shriek made them go stupid.

you huffed a laugh when they all keeled over, in disbelief you managed to pull it off. then you just laughed for the hell of it. who's invincible now?

you could talk shit like your father; you just hoped his tendency to get his balls rocked right after he ran his mouth didn't pass on to you.

"big mistake leaving me breathing," you activated the dead man's switch and brought your foot down on the controller, smashing it to little pieces. "you had your chance to kill me. now it's my turn."

© invoncible

[bitters-n-sweets]

take a break — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader Robby is finally on vacation in Bali. He can't quite turn off the part of him that stays alert, but then he meets someone who somehow silences all the noise.

warnings: angst. smut 18+,  minors go away. this feels very romantic to me. i loved writing this. i never intended to include smut in this actually, i find it challenging, but it felt like a great addition to the story. pls be nice :") [p in v sex, no protection—don't do this kids, oral!fem receiving, fingering, swearing] not proofread. 4.4K words -- i think this is also the longest fic I've written so far masterlist

It just finished raining, and the air feels sticky with heat and flowers. Robby's on his third day of vacation in Bali, and he's yet to do anything on this island they call paradise. No tours, no yoga by the beach, not even a swim.

It's beautiful here—almost painfully—but he keeps checking his phone like someone might page him. Old habits. No one’s paging him. Time zones are a buffer, and besides, he’s on the other side of the world. What could he possibly do?

He’s halfway through drinking from his coconut, perched on a wooden lounge chair by the beach, when he hears a voice beside him, amused and warm.

"You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem with your drink."

He looks up. You’re barefoot, sun-kissed, wearing loose cotton pants and a tank top, your hair a little wild from the humidity.

Robby blinks. "Is it that obvious?"

You motion to the seemingly permanent frown on his face.

Robby's seen you around the resort before. Always by yourself, with two books in one hand and a drink in the other. He thought about saying something multiple times, but always chickened out. Something about you felt... unapproachable. Not in an intimidating way, more in a you’re living fully and I’m not sure how to do that so I don't want to possibly ruin it for you way.

Now you both sit in silence, while Robby continues to check his phone again and sighs. That's when you hand him your book. "Here."

He blinks down at the cover. A Man Called Ove.

"One of my favorites. You should read it." You say, "Better than constantly checking your phone and regretting it a second later."

Robby snorts. You have a point.

"You lend books to strangers a lot?"

"If they look like they've been through some rough shit, yes."

That startles a laugh out of him—genuine, low, a little rusty. "I’m Michael. Robinavitch. You can call me Robby."

You offer your name in return, then nod toward the book. "Give it a chance. Let me know what you think."

"What makes you think I'll give your book back?"

You smile, stepping toward the path back to the resort. "I've seen you around the resort. And if you don't, I'll hunt you down."

You're feeling particularly exhausted today. One, because you just went out surfing for the entire day yesterday, but also because today, you were supposed to be walking down the aisle with the most beautiful dress, about to marry the love of your life. Instead, you're in a hotel room halfway across the world, alone, and feeling like shit.

Well, you suppose the day wasn't half bad. You finally managed to talk to the broody, quietly handsome guy who looks like he’s seen too much and somehow still comes off calm and steady. A smile tugs at your lips. He’s more charming than you expected.

Bali was not a place you thought you'd visit alone. You always imagined you'd be here with your ex-fiancé, drinking and watching the sunset. So you decide it's time to take care of yourself, wear that sundress you've been saving for a special occasion, and head to the resort's bar.

You sit down at your table, putting your book down and picking up the menu, when someone clears his throat, standing next to you.

Robby.

"This seat taken?"

You try to hide your smile. "Be my guest."

He smiles and sits across from you, putting his your book down on the table. He looks good—too good. He’s traded his usual loose t-shirt for a navy polo that clings in the right places, and linen pants that make his long legs look impossibly relaxed.

"You clean up nice." You say.

"You look beautiful." Robby counters, "Can I ask what's the occasion?"

You chuckle nervously, not ready to share the sad part of your life yet. Thankfully, you're saved by the waiter coming to take your order.

"Do you drink Rosé?" Robby asks after ordering your meals. And you nod, surprised. "Great, let's open a bottle of dry Rosé." He says to the waiter.

You raise your brows once the waiter leaves. "Didn't take you for a wine guy—let alone a Rosé? You're full of surprises, Michael."

"You sound like my mother when you call me like that." He groans.

"'Michael'?"

"Yes, and she also mocks my drink choices."

You laugh. "So what's the story?"

"A friend gifted me a dry Rosé one time as a joke. I didn’t want to waste it, so I drank it. Turns out, I liked it more than I wanted to admit. But keep that between us."

You hum, "Ah, yes, can't have you ruin your naturally broody aura."

"Me? Broody?" He snorts like it's ridiculous. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely are."

With the food almost immediately devoured, you're left with wine and each other's company. The ocean hums in the distance, with the breeze prickling your skin. Robby’s gone quiet, admiring the view, the half-full glass of rosé resting loosely in his fingers.

"So, how do you like the book so far?"

He exhales, tipping his head back. "I wasn’t ready to love it. But it... got to me."

You grin. "Ove grows on you, doesn’t he?"

"Yeah," Robby murmurs. "Grumpy bastard made me feel things I wasn’t in the mood to feel."

You laugh. "That's the point. He's angry at life, but still shows up for people. Even when he doesn’t want to."

Robby nods, quiet for a second. "I think I know what that feels like."

You glance at him, surprised by the honesty. His jaw is tense, but his eyes are soft. You wonder if you should ask—but something tells you this moment is already fragile, and curiosity might crack it too soon.

Instead, you wait.

"I'm an ER doc." Robby swirls the wine in his glass absentmindedly. "Lots of chaos. Long hours. Lots of traumas, deaths… I used to think I was built for this line of work. The pressure, the adrenaline... the fixing things. And sometimes I still do. But lately…"

You don’t speak. You let him go on, because he needs to.

He takes a deep breath. "Lately I’ve been wondering if it's all catching up with me. Like—I walk around carrying everyone else's worst days, and I don’t even notice the weight until I sit still." He continues. "I’ve seen kids come in with gunshots. Mothers who collapse from exhaustion. People screaming for someone to save them, and you just have to keep moving like it doesn’t get to you. Like you’re above it. But you’re not. Not really."

Robby then takes a sharp breath. "Sorry. I'm not usually this..."

You offer him a small smile. "Broody?"

That earns a faint smile, but it doesn’t erase the weariness from his expression.

You figured it's only fair you share your story, too.

You put your wine glass down, your finger tracing the rim. "I was supposed to get married today."

That catches him off guard. His eyes widen, gently. "Oh. Today? As in—today today?"

"Yeah," You laugh under your breath, "Booked the venue and everything. Until 6 months ago, I found out he was cheating on me with one of my bridesmaids. Classic."

"Prick," Robby mutters.

"Right? So I pulled the plug on the wedding, and I've been traveling the world ever since. Running away, I guess. I was so caught up in the relationship that I think I lost part of myself." You sigh. "So now, I'm re-finding myself. Yay."

Robby chuckles. "And how's it going so far?"

You smile, "Let's just say I'm glad I'm not spending today alone."

He mirrors your smile, lifting his glass to cheer. "Me too."

"Walk with me?" you ask, gesturing toward the beach after you've finished your wine.

Robby doesn’t hesitate. "Lead the way."

You both kick off your shoes by the beach entrance and walk slowly along the shore, the water brushing your feet gently. You can feel the wine in your system now. The salty air hits your skin and lets your hair flow freely. Robby has never seen anyone more beautiful. He's glad it's dark out now, or you would've seen him blush.

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you. Half-lidded, faintly flushed from the wine and maybe something more.

"I don’t usually let myself relax like this." He murmurs.

"And yet here you are, walking barefoot on a beach with a stranger, wine-drunk and poetic." You laugh lightly.

"Stranger?" He repeats, stepping in front of you gently, making you stop.

"No?"

"Feels like I've known you longer." He smiles lazily.

Your heart kicks up a notch, not sure what to say, so you just smile, turning to look towards the sea. The breeze has picked up, cooler now that the sun has long dipped below the horizon. You cross your arms, trying not to shiver, but the goosebumps along your arms give you away.

Without a word, Robby steps behind you. You feel his warmth before you feel the touch—his hands gently brushing your arms, then slowly wrapping around your waist. His chest is solid and steady against your back, and you let yourself lean into it, just a little.

He’s quiet, but you can hear the soft rhythm of his breathing, feel it where your shoulders meet his. The sea hums in the distance, but all you can think about is how your heart is racing—and how you can feel his breath on your skin.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met." He says.

You chuckle and glance up at him, suddenly meeting his eyes. "That's the Rosé talking."

"Maybe," he says, almost to himself. "Or maybe I just really want to kiss you."

Your breath catches. That weightless feeling flutters in your chest, and the world seems to narrow to just the space between your mouths. He waits for your permission—doesn’t lean in right away, doesn’t push. Just watches you, his fingers still resting lightly on your waist.

So you give in. You lean up and close the space between you. It's slow, exploring new ground, like you're testing the heat between you. Robby’s lips are soft, warm, and his beard grazes your skin in the most deliciously distracting way. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, and you find your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw.

The kiss lingers on your lips even after it ends, like you don't want it to be over. Robby pulls back just enough to look at you, still hazy, still drunk on the moment. His hand is still snug at your waist, like he’s afraid to let go too quickly.

"I don’t want to overstep," he whispers, "But if I asked you to come back with me… would that be okay?"

You hesitate for a second, because something about this feels different than just a vacation fling, but you can't talk about it yet. You don't want to.

"I was hoping you’d ask," you murmur against his lips.

That earns you a smile and another short make-out session that leaves you breathless.

"Are we leaving or what?" You ask in between kisses.

He chuckles, "So impatient."

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and you walk together barefoot, tipsy, and a little giddy from everything that’s happened tonight. The resort glows softly in the distance, lanterns swaying with the wind.

Once inside his room, you walk in slowly as if it doesn't look exactly like yours. The mood shifts. Robby closes the door behind you, and for a second, neither of you says anything. You just look at each other in the dim light, the tension from earlier about to snap.

Robby takes the first step closer to you, dragging his finger to lift your chin so he can kiss you again. And again. And again. And you sigh into his arms, hands on his broad chest.

"You can stop me any time."

"I won't."

He kisses you again, deeper this time. His hands slip around your waist, then your back, and up to where the straps of your dress rest. You can feel your heart flip when he hooks it on his finger, slowly peeling it off your shoulder, as if giving you time to push him away, but teasing at the same time.

You let the strap fall down your arm, and the other one soon follows. Robby’s gaze follows the motion like he’s watching something sacred, like he's not sure if he's allowed to want this but can't help himself anyway.

His fingers trail over your now-bare shoulder, and you shiver, goosebumps forming on your skin.

You take his hand and slowly make your way towards the bed, sitting down and placing your hands on his waist. You tug at his shirt, hinting you want it off, and he obliges, the shirt gone in one swift motion.

"You’re beautiful," He groans as he leans down to lie on top of you. "God."

You memorize the feel of him: warm skin, a strong chest under your palms, the steady rhythm of his breath stuttering slightly when your hands roam lower to reach his belt. He lets you undo it. Lets you unbutton his pants and pull them down as he peppers kisses throughout your body.

You let out a soft moan when his hand trails up your naked torso, hesitantly, ever so gently caressing your breast, teasing your nipple with his finger, while his mouth makes its way down to latch onto the other.

"Fuck, Robby." Your hand goes up to tug on his hair, earning you a lustful groan, while your other hand grabs onto his arm as an anchor.

Your head is spinning, and something is itching. You buck your hips up to meet his, and now his hand is pinning your waist down.

"You really need to work on your patience." He teases and stops kissing you.

"Can you really blame me?" You daringly take one of his hands, resting it on the slick heat between your thighs.

"Fuck." Robby closes his eyes, pressing his thumb to where he can feel your clitoris is, the sensitive bud poking out and pushing against your panties.

You throw your head back, hips bucking against his hand.

Robby slowly slips the little piece of clothing off, and you watch as his fingers smooth over your slit. He keeps his eyes on you as he lowers himself. You swallow as you anticipate what he's about to do.

"So fucking wet." He murmurs, leaving kitten licks on your clit.

You can only moan while he has his way with you. His hands are holding your thighs open for him, and you try your best to keep eye contact, but it's only making you falter faster. His eyes are dark, lustful, hungry, and you feel like you could cum just from watching him.

He gently sucks on your swollen bud, and you lose your mind when he inserts one finger. Then two. Your slick makes it easy for his fingers to move around and find your sensitive spot, he found it almost immediately, he can tell by the way your eyes roll back and how you clench around him every time.

"Robby—" You sigh with pleasure—a warning, bucking your hips again, and this time he lets you, feeling you're close to the edge. His fingers move expertly in and out of you, curling just at the right spot. Your breaths become erratic, following the pace of Robby's fingers. "Come, sweetheart." He says, almost as a command, and your body arches moments after, breath catching in your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Robby doesn't immediately stop. He pumps his fingers a few more times until you're trembling away, and with a proud smirk, he pulls his fingers out, licks them to taste you—making sure you're watching—before hovering on top of you to kiss you.

You can taste yourself in his mouth, and you whimper, feeling him pressing against your cunt. You're still sensitive, but it feels like you're desperately hungry for more. More of Robby.

Robby tries to pace himself, he doesn't want to rush. He wants to cherish this, drag this out, because he doesn't want this to end. He wants to keep feeling your plush lips against his, your soft touches, your hands in his hair, your body pressed firmly against his.

"Robby," you whisper, your voice barely more than air, "I want you. Please."

And he loses all of his resolve.

Robby bites his lip as he sees your disheveled state. Lips swollen, hair a mess, hooded and hungry eyes, how can he say no to you?

He takes his boxers off, freeing his cock and letting it spring back up to his stomach. You gasp at the sight. He's gonna kill you. First with his gentleness, second with his cock, because you don't think you can handle that.

"Fuck off." You unintentionally comment.

Robby lets out a laugh. "Relax."

"Are you kidding?"

He just shakes his head and hovers over you again, but this time you push him over so he's sitting and you're on top, your sopping wet cunt sitting on his aching cock.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me." He closes his eyes and groans as you drag your hips along his length.

You decide neither of you would last any more teasing, so you take him in your hands, covered in your wetness and his precum, and push him against your folds. Your walls squeeze him as he bottoms out inside you, and you have to hold still for a while.

Robby's hands grip your waist and you're sure it'll leave marks in the morning, but you don't really care. You lift your hips slowly, leaving just the tip before slamming yourself back down, eliciting a moan from both of you.

You're set on a pace, slow, steady, allowing you to have control, but it's not enough. You groan and bury your face in Robby's neck. "Robby…"

"Hm?" He teases, like he knows what you're about to ask for.

"Please," You whisper. "I need…"

He pulls you from hiding your face, a confident smirk on his. But he decides to be merciful this time. Chuckling, he moves so you're now flat on your back again, legs tucked up and pressed onto your sides.

"Tell me if you want to stop, okay?"

You manage to let out a giggle. "Robby, don't worry—" your words are immediately cut off when he reinserts himself, the position makes it feel completely different from before. "—Holy fuck."

Robby starts slow, letting you fully adjust before feeling you clench around him, and he picks up the speed. You feel like the air is knocked out of your lungs, only able to take short breaths as Robby brutally drives into you, making you feel all of him.

You can't even moan anymore, your mouth just hangs open as you put your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss you can't properly do. Strings of fuck—Robby—so deep—fuck—you feel so good are the only things you can muster as you feel your high approaching again.

You couldn't even warn him when your orgasm hits you. Your nails just dig into his shoulder as your eyes roll back, back arching as far as it could go, and walls spasming around him. He grunts, nibbling on your neck as his hips stutter, not expecting you to get so tight.

"Fuck." He moans as he spills inside you, staying still for a minute to catch his breath and make sure you're okay.

You're still panting and twitching under him, eyes still closed, but your hands draw small circles on the back of his head.

"'M gonna pull out now." He warns and you hum, moaning again when he does.

He stands up to get a towel to clean you up, "Don't go anywhere." He jokes.

You chuckle. "Don't think I can."

The room is quiet now, only the sound of the AC and the steady rhythm of your breaths can be heard. You're both tangled in the sheets, your leg draped over his, skin still warm from everything that just passed between you. Robby lies on his side, one arm wrapped around your waist, fingertips gently grazing your back in slow, absent-minded strokes. You’re tucked into his chest, your head resting in the curve of his shoulder, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest.

Eventually, he presses a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering there.

"You're kind of amazing," He mutters.

"Kind of?" You raise a brow.

He huffs a quiet laugh, "I’m trying not to let it go to your head."

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him. His hair is tousled, his eyes soft, still heavy-lidded. "Too late."

He smiles and presses another kiss to your lips.

"Do you always kiss like that on vacation?" You tease.

He chuckles, "Only when I meet someone who gives me their favorite book."

"Pretty exclusive club."

"You're the only member."

You nuzzle closer into him, smiling into his chest. "I'm not gonna lie," You start, "This all feels a little surreal. I never thought I'd meet someone like you. You make all of this feel… right."

"I feel the same way." He admits, "I want to pause everything and just stay in our little bubble."

The silence stretches comfortably for a moment. And then, you get a gut-wrenching realization. "Oh. Right. You said you're only here for a week."

He nods, voice tighter, his hand still tracing along your side. "Yeah."

"So we’ve got, what… four more?"

"Mm-hm." He pulls you close to him, perhaps it's a way so you can't see his sullen expression. "Four more days in the bubble."

And it's hardly enough time.

The next few days blur in sunlight and ocean breeze, you take Robby on winding motorbike rides, wild ATV tours through the jungle, surfing lessons where you both wipe out laughing, and quiet moments snorkeling with whale sharks. You try to make as many memories as you can, all the while masking the dread of his departure. And at night, it’s always the same—his touch like a promise, your body moving with his in the dark, like you're both pretending the end isn't coming.

You both made the silent decision not to say where you’re from. Maybe if you find out he lives just hours away, it’ll make this too real. Too painful. Better to keep things suspended in this bubble, this almost-fairytale. Better to let it end on a hopeful note, instead of a practical-hurtful one.

You’ve told yourself this is just a fling. That some people come into your life for a reason, and maybe Robby was never meant to stay. Maybe he’s just a beautiful lesson in loving deeply and letting go.

You try not to cry in front of him. You want to make the goodbye easier than it feels, to shield him and yourself from the ache that's already blooming in your chest. You try to seem light, even when it’s breaking you.

It’s not easy for Robby, either. If he could, he’d offer you his world—just to wake up beside you every morning and fall asleep with you tucked against his chest. But it wouldn’t be fair. He could never ask you to upend your life for him, no matter how much he wants to.

And maybe that’s the hardest part, he wants to do this right. He wants to believe this is more than just a vacation high. But what if his reality—grueling shifts, emotional exhaustion, his work-life imbalance—ends up driving you away? There’s so much he wants to say, but maybe silence is the merciful choice.

It's the night before he leaves, and you can't say goodbye. But it’s there, hanging unspoken in the humid air between kisses, in the way you cling to each other just a little tighter. You talk quietly about nothing at all, and everything at once—movies you haven’t seen, food you miss, a joke about whale sharks that makes you both laugh a little too hard at 1AM.

At one point, while tracing lazy circles on his chest, he asks, "Should I go before you wake up?"

You don’t answer right away, but then nod. Robby can see your lips quivering slightly.

He pulls you closer to him, but neither of you falls asleep quickly. You make love again, slower this time, as if trying to memorize each other’s skin. As if trying to stretch the hours. You fall asleep tangled together, heartbeats in sync.

By the time the soft blue of dawn creeps up, Robby’s already awake. He moves quietly, getting dressed in the soft light, careful not to wake you. Before he leaves, he pauses by your bedside. You’re still curled under the covers, looking peaceful and beautiful.

He looks at you like he’s trying to remember everything.

Then he pulls something from his bag—a folded piece of paper—and tucks it gently into the book you gave him. His fingers linger on the cover for a beat too long.

He leaves without a sound.

You wake hours later to an empty room, your chest already aching before your mind catches up. You sit up slowly, the sheets cold beside you. You scan everything in your room, maybe Robby had left something behind that you could keep as a memento.

Then you see the book. You open it to find the note inside:

"You changed something in me. Thank you for letting me be yours, even just for a moment."

And that’s when you finally let yourself cry.

------

part two for a reunion is out!

[ozzgin]

What if there was a shy!reader who's the biggest fan for a monster band and absolutely LOVES their music, showing up to their every show and having all of their merch. They would have the biggest crush on them too but is too afraid to do anything about it.

One day, they decided to have a meet and greet after one of their shows. You quietly came up to them to ask for an autograph but no words came out and you started to panic a little.

They looked at you like you're the most adorable thing they've ever seen and signed your poster along with your shirt without you saying anything. You bowed your head down as thanks and walked away in shyness.

Now, in every show they perform in, they would look around just to try and find one particular face, yours. The moment they lock eyes with you, they don't stop. Why would they? You're the cutest fan they've ever met.

- 🎸

That's actually such a great idea. Monster!Band, a fan favorite among the monstrous population. Unbeknownst to them, they have one singular human follower: you.

The concert venue is always crowded, so your existence remains a mystery. Not even the other attendants notice that a human frequently sneaks its way closer to the stage.

At the latest meet and greet, a pair of foreign hands reaches out for an autograph. The members take a moment to stare in silence, earning a flustered shuffle from you. Have you said something wrong? Did you skip your place in the queue? No, they simply didn't expect to see a human. As a matter of fact, it's the first time in their life. An encounter of a lifetime.

Thankfully they're quick to regain their composure, smiling and signing your merch, then following your figure with a pang of regret. It would've been improper to ask for your contact, especially before the hungry, envious eyes of other fans.

They begin searching for you every night, walking onto the stage and scanning the area with an almost pathetic need to find you. A cheeky sort of competition develops between the band mates, taking turns in approaching you, winking in your direction, or targeting you for interactions. You've suddenly become the lucky owner of several items thrown into the crowd; the priceless goods always land in your hands.

You might think of yourself as their biggest fan, but the beastly artists have taken quite an interest in you, too. That photo you managed to snap after their show? It's the lead singer's phone wallpaper now. Remember the time your bracelet somehow flew at the feet of the guitarist? He was ready to kick it away, until he realized it's yours. It is now his most prized possession.

Indeed, it seems that the fan behavior is slowly shifting the other way around. If only they'd find a way to get closer to their human.